car phone. The robotic voice of an operator informed him that there were ten Hilton Hotels in the Capital area, but he was only interested in the four technically in Washington. With the Maryland countryside flowing past in an endless wave of green, he called the first hotel.
Hannibalâs years as a policeman in New York had taught him how to act like a cop, but one of the less obvious things he had learned in the Secret Service was how to sound like a cop. There is a tone, a pace, an approach to asking questions that people recognize as official. Using the right amount of authority, Hannibal was able to get three hotels to confirm that they had not had a guest named Rod, Roderick or Roger Mantooth in the appropriate timeframe. The fourth Hilton explained that they could not divulge that kind of information over the telephone. Hannibal thanked them and drove on, now knowing where Rod had stayed.
The final phone call ended just as Hannibal was merging onto the Beltway, turning his CD player back up, and noticing the gray Ford in his rearview mirror. Traffic on I-495 was light at this time of the morning, but moving quickly. He wouldnât be on that road five minutes at this pace, so he stayed in the right lane. ZZ Topâs raucous white-boy blues slammed out of his four-speaker system, informing him that âJesus Just Left Chicago.â Mouthing the words along with the music, he focused on the vehicle three cars back in his mirror.
The flat gray Ford Fairmont was as close to nondescript as a car could be. Boxy but not too big or small, it would be the perfect tail car, if someone wanted to follow someone else. Nothing distinguished it from the mass of Detroit molded metal on the road that morning. Nothing except familiarity. Hannibal was almost sure heâd seen this car behind him just before he reached Route 5, half an hour ago. Of course, it might not be the same car. Even if it was, there was nothing so strange about another driver taking the best route from the Eastern Shore to the District. Stillâ¦
A Land Cruiser was slowly sliding past Hannibal on his left. To Hannibal, nobody needed a vehicle that size unless they were entering a demolition derby. A Voyager trailed it by a little more than a car length, its driverâs attention divided by four children bouncing in the seats behind her. Hadnât they heard about seat belts in that household? Well, maybe he would give them a reminder.
A slow smile spread across Hannibalâs face and he was singing along with the music under his breath. As he and the band reached the chorus, âBeer drinkers, yeah, hell raisers,â Hannibal released his accelerator to let his Volvo drift back so that the four wheel drive Cruiser was completely past him.
âLetâs do it, Tornado,â he muttered between lyrics. Watching his mirrors closely, he slapped the shifter down into second gear and made a sharp slide to his left. Chauffeur Mom slammed her brakes and Hannibal moved through the space and directly into the third lane. The woman was yelling at her charges, who had flown all about the inside of the van. Hannibal could spare only a sliver of attention to the kids buckling up, because he was watching the Ford, which also jogged hard left. It paused in the middle lane for a moment before moving over to the third and settling in three cars behind Hannibal.
âWell, I guess that settles that,â Hannibal said. But already his exit was coming up - exit 2B, leading to that little stretch of I-295 that would take him to Maine Avenue downtown. Pressing the accelerator to the floor, Hannibal felt his engine move comfortably into overdrive as he pulled the steeringwheel to dive in front of the Land Cruiser. Again he slid across two lanes of traffic to dart onto the exit ramp, and then downshifted as his car leaned into the sharp right curve. His tires made a small squeal of protest, but only for a second. When he slotted into traffic between
Hannibalâs years as a policeman in New York had taught him how to act like a cop, but one of the less obvious things he had learned in the Secret Service was how to sound like a cop. There is a tone, a pace, an approach to asking questions that people recognize as official. Using the right amount of authority, Hannibal was able to get three hotels to confirm that they had not had a guest named Rod, Roderick or Roger Mantooth in the appropriate timeframe. The fourth Hilton explained that they could not divulge that kind of information over the telephone. Hannibal thanked them and drove on, now knowing where Rod had stayed.
The final phone call ended just as Hannibal was merging onto the Beltway, turning his CD player back up, and noticing the gray Ford in his rearview mirror. Traffic on I-495 was light at this time of the morning, but moving quickly. He wouldnât be on that road five minutes at this pace, so he stayed in the right lane. ZZ Topâs raucous white-boy blues slammed out of his four-speaker system, informing him that âJesus Just Left Chicago.â Mouthing the words along with the music, he focused on the vehicle three cars back in his mirror.
The flat gray Ford Fairmont was as close to nondescript as a car could be. Boxy but not too big or small, it would be the perfect tail car, if someone wanted to follow someone else. Nothing distinguished it from the mass of Detroit molded metal on the road that morning. Nothing except familiarity. Hannibal was almost sure heâd seen this car behind him just before he reached Route 5, half an hour ago. Of course, it might not be the same car. Even if it was, there was nothing so strange about another driver taking the best route from the Eastern Shore to the District. Stillâ¦
A Land Cruiser was slowly sliding past Hannibal on his left. To Hannibal, nobody needed a vehicle that size unless they were entering a demolition derby. A Voyager trailed it by a little more than a car length, its driverâs attention divided by four children bouncing in the seats behind her. Hadnât they heard about seat belts in that household? Well, maybe he would give them a reminder.
A slow smile spread across Hannibalâs face and he was singing along with the music under his breath. As he and the band reached the chorus, âBeer drinkers, yeah, hell raisers,â Hannibal released his accelerator to let his Volvo drift back so that the four wheel drive Cruiser was completely past him.
âLetâs do it, Tornado,â he muttered between lyrics. Watching his mirrors closely, he slapped the shifter down into second gear and made a sharp slide to his left. Chauffeur Mom slammed her brakes and Hannibal moved through the space and directly into the third lane. The woman was yelling at her charges, who had flown all about the inside of the van. Hannibal could spare only a sliver of attention to the kids buckling up, because he was watching the Ford, which also jogged hard left. It paused in the middle lane for a moment before moving over to the third and settling in three cars behind Hannibal.
âWell, I guess that settles that,â Hannibal said. But already his exit was coming up - exit 2B, leading to that little stretch of I-295 that would take him to Maine Avenue downtown. Pressing the accelerator to the floor, Hannibal felt his engine move comfortably into overdrive as he pulled the steeringwheel to dive in front of the Land Cruiser. Again he slid across two lanes of traffic to dart onto the exit ramp, and then downshifted as his car leaned into the sharp right curve. His tires made a small squeal of protest, but only for a second. When he slotted into traffic between
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